


I'll stare at the void in disillusion

by whutnow



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Amnesia, F/F, Light Angst, Memory Loss, POV Second Person, Short as hell, featuring an amnesiac touka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 04:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21440296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whutnow/pseuds/whutnow
Summary: The darkness of your eyes speak of forgotten tragedies, older than your memories and younger than you.
Relationships: Kirishima Touka/Kosaka Yoriko
Kudos: 10





	I'll stare at the void in disillusion

You stare at the mirror, your reflection observing you with indiscernible curiosity. Your hair shadows an entire side of your elegantly-shaped face. Your skin is pale and unblemished, soft to the touch, and your lips are pink and small. The darkness of your head matches well with the white of your face. _What do you look_ _like? _you think, siding your fingers across the white surface of the sink. The walls are white too. Everything is white.

_Pretty, _the face blinks at you, dainty eyelashes fluttering as skin momentarily envelops your sight, _you look pretty._

His head is yellow, bright like the sun beaming at the world from overhead, the color of it deep like the foul-smelling butter handed over to you. He grins, white teeth and the skin between his brown eyes crinkling, and it's _bright._

He says _hello_ and you blink, and he babbles while aggressively gesturing to an unfamiliar book in his hands, the color of it red and black. His clothes are yellow and orange and bright, and your head hurts. The scent of niggling familiarity you can't place clings to him like a leech, feeding off his positivity and smiles until all that is left is a hollowed out corpse. Bitterness surrounds him, but all he radiates is optimism, and the resultant irony is hard to look at. You've seen _him_ before, and so you turn away, your face burrowing in the white of your sheets. You allow the lull of his voice to lead you to sleep, allowing the grey of your world to wash away the remnants of his orange.

"Amnesia," you say, and everyone in the room jumps. Their faces are unregistered by your mind, but they know _you_ so it doesn't matter. The doctor, the man in white attire, pokes you with the cold silver of an instrument, and voices start rising. The sound in the room is uncoordinated and emotional, frequencies jumping at odd intervals.

"Amnesia," you repeat, the letters sound odd in your mouth. You roll your tongue and repeat. "Amnesia." The syllables are in an even collection, your voice doesn't waver like the others. "Amnesia." The frequency remains constant. "Amnesia." You rinse and repeat.

She cradles your face, fingertips exploring your cheeks as if they have already been mapped and committed to memory.

"Touka-chan," her voice is soft and warm, and for the first time, you feel the warmth of physical security blooming in your chest, shrouding you like a blanket in the cold.


End file.
